Black Ice (17 page)

“What did you say?”

She cleared her throat. She could taste the blood orange on her mouth. She could taste his fingers on her lips. “I said I’m sorry. For asking you rude questions, for arguing with you, for trying to run away and not listening to you. You’ve gone out of your way to protect me, and all I do is whine and complain. I’m sorry. And I’m grateful.”

He rose from the bed, stepping away from her, as far as he could in the tiny room. His eyes were hooded, unreadable, watching her. “Grateful? I thought you considered me a fiend from hell.”

“You are,” she said, her irritation bubbling up again. “But you’ve saved my life, at least twice, and I never said thank you.”

“Don’t thank me now. When you’re safely back in the States you can spare a kind thought for me.”

“Why do you care? I don’t understand why you’re going to so much trouble for me. I know you said you rescued me from Hakim on a whim, but I don’t believe
it. I think you’re not as cold-blooded as you think you are, and when push came to shove you couldn’t let Hakim kill a woman. I know deep down that you’re a decent human being, even if I don’t know who and what you are, or even your real name.”

“You don’t need to know my name. Besides, you’re deluded,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’m a cold-blooded bastard. I don’t make a habit of rescuing women who wander into places they should keep away from. In your case it’s easier to get you back to the States than get rid of you here.”

“You wouldn’t kill me. I know you killed Hakim, but I don’t think you could kill a woman.”

“Don’t you?”

The faint mockery in his voice was very unsettling. Her father was right, she never could stop talking when she needed to. But she’d had to apologize, to thank him. He had saved her, was still protecting her, presumably out of the basic human decency he seemed so determined to deny. It couldn’t be anything personal.

He moved closer to her, his body blocking out the candlelight, and caught her chin in his hand, drawing her face up to his. “Look at me, Chloe,” he said softly. “Look into my eyes, and tell me you see the soul of a decent man. A man who wouldn’t kill unless he was forced to.”

She didn’t want to look. His eyes were dark, opaque, empty, and for a brief moment she could almost see the
blackness inside. She tried to jerk her head away, but his hand tightened, holding her firmly, and his face was close to hers. His mouth was close to hers, and she could smell the blood oranges on his breath. “Tell me I’m a good man, Chloe,” he said in a soft, dead voice. “Show me just how stupid you really are.”

The words were cruel, harsh, and there was no light or warmth in his face. Only pain, hidden so deep inside that no one could see it, driving, wrenching pain that was tearing him apart. She could see it, feel it, like a tangible entity in the tiny room, and she put her hands on his wrist, not to pull his harsh grip away, just to touch him.

“I’m not stupid,” she said, feeling suddenly very calm and certain. He wasn’t moving away, and she was going to kiss him. She was going to put her mouth against his because she wanted to. And he was going to kiss her back, because beneath that darkness was a need as powerful as hers.

And then it wasn’t going to be up to her, because he dipped his head closer, and his mouth brushed hers, and her body rose to meet his mouth.

But it was no more than a featherlight kiss. “I’m the devil incarnate, Chloe,” he whispered. “And you’re an idiot if you can’t see that.”

“Then I’m an idiot,” she said, waiting for him to kiss her again.

But he didn’t. They stayed like that, for a long, end
less moment, and then he said, “Come in, Maureen.” The hidden door slid open, flooding the tiny room with blinding light.

It slid shut again, but by then Chloe had retreated to her corner of the bed, trying to make her eyes adjust to the newcomer.

“Am I interrupting something, Jean-Marc?” The woman’s voice was rich with amusement. “I can always come back later.”

“You weren’t interrupting anything more than a little lesson in survival. Maureen, this is your charge, our little lost American.” He turned his dark, opaque eyes back to Chloe. “And this,
ma chère,
is Maureen. My sometimes wife. She’s a very good operative—I would only trust you to the best. You’ll be in her hands from now on. She’ll get you to the airport and safely on your way back home—she hasn’t failed a mission yet.”

“Oh, I’ve failed one or two in my time,” Maureen said in her rich, warm voice. “But in the end I’ve always made it right. We’ll be just fine, Chloe and me.” She was an attractive woman in her midthirties, chic, well-dressed in a suit that Sylvia would have died for.

Chloe’s thoughts stopped cold at the thought. She managed a stiff smile before turning her attention back to Bastien. Or Jean-Marc, as she’d called him. Or the man with no name. “You’re leaving me?”

He made no effort to hide his amusement. “I’m abandoning you, my sweet, leaving you to Maureen’s
tender mercies. I’ve let my work slide for far too long, and I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer. Have a safe trip home and a good life.”

And then he was gone.

“A
nother one of Jean-Marc’s conquests,” Maureen said, moving into the room. “Poor thing. You’re all alike, with your pathetic eyes and pretty faces. Jean-Marc never could resist a pretty face.” She sounded affable enough, and she set the suitcase she was carrying down on the bed. She tilted her head to one side, surveying Chloe. “Though maybe you’re not his usual type, come to think of it. He’s never been one for the damsels in distress. I’m surprised he didn’t get rid of you himself.”

Her offhand words shocked Chloe into speech. “He wouldn’t—”

“Oh, I assure you he would. And has. But for some reason he wants to keep you safe, so he’s enlisted my help. What have you been calling him?” She snapped open the suitcase, pulling out some clean clothes.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, he certainly wouldn’t go by Jean-Marc. I
doubt that’s even his real name. He’s probably forgotten what it is. Last I heard he was using Étienne.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Maureen said. “You’ll want to change into some fresh clothes before we take off. And what in God’s name happened to your hair? You look like you’ve been attacked by Edward Scissorhands.”

“I cut it.” There was a pair of black trousers, black shirt, even black bra and panties. Must be regulation issue for all…spies. Operatives. Whatever they were.

“I can see that you did,” Maureen said. “Never mind—I’m sure someone can fix it when you get back home. Go ahead and change.” She leaned against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her, waiting.

The last thing Chloe was going to do was strip down in front of her. “Could I have a little privacy?”

“You Americans are all absurdly prudish, aren’t you? I would have thought spending a few days with Jean-Marc would have gotten you over such squeamishness.”

Chloe said nothing. Clearly Maureen wasn’t going to move, and she had no choice but to pull the turtleneck off.

The room was cold. She looked down at her arms, but the livid marks were almost gone. Two days ago she’d been tortured and bleeding. Now she looked nothing more than a little worn-out and a little cold.

She reached for the new shirt, but Maureen stopped her. “Take off everything,” she said. “You’d be sur
prised at what people can trace when it comes to clothing. We don’t want to give anything away.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. Take the bra off. Though where the hell you could have gotten such a thing astonishes me. Not in Paris. It’s the sort of thing nuns would wear. Don’t you have any sense of style?”

“Not much. And who says those clothes will fit me?”

“Jean-Marc told me what size to get. Trust me, they’ll fit. So tell me, how was he?”

Chloe was reluctantly changing her bra before Maureen’s interested eyes, removing her plain white cotton one for the black lace confection that did indeed fit her perfectly. “How was he?” she echoed.

“In bed, girl,” she said, impatient. “We had an affair a number of years ago, and I still remember his…inventiveness…quite fondly. You don’t look as if you had the stamina to keep up with him.”

She finished changing quickly, not giving Maureen any more time to catalogue her physical deficiencies. “It’s none of your business.”

“Of course it is. I need to know how enraptured he is. He’s been acting strangely for the past few months, and falling for an innocent little bird like you is one of the oddest things he’s done.”

“He hasn’t fallen for me. He simply felt responsible after he…” Her voice trailed off, uncertain as to how much Maureen really knew.

“After he killed Hakim.” Maureen finished the sentence for her. “Well, at least he got that part of the mission right,” she muttered. “Though why he didn’t wait until after you were dead is beyond my comprehension. And why he didn’t just finish you when he realized you were still alive.” She shook her beautifully coiffed head.

“He hadn’t planned to kill Monsieur Hakim—”

“Of course he had. That was what he was there to do, among other things. You just happened to be in the way. Don’t tell me he managed to convince you he’d wasted Hakim for your sweet sake?”

“No,” Chloe said bleakly.

She stood, and to her horror Maureen began examining the blanket, then stripped it from the bed. “It doesn’t look like the two of you did anything while you were here, but you never can tell. We’re better safe than sorry when it comes to DNA testing.”

“You’re way off base. Bas…Jean-Marc has no interest in me. I’m an inconvenience that he’s passed on to you.”

“So it seems. But I can’t imagine he didn’t at least sample the wares. He’s got a strong appetite, and he’d find you attractive in a wholesome, American sort of way.”

Chloe said nothing. Even with the light from the open door the room felt more claustrophobic than it ever had, probably from Maureen’s poisonous cheer. “Could we leave? I’d like to go straight to the airport if we could.”

Maureen snapped the suitcase shut, the discarded clothes and sheet tucked inside. “Yes,” she said cheerfully. “It’s time to leave. But I’m afraid you’re not going to the airport.”

It was getting colder by the minute. The old house was unheated, and even with the bright sunlight reflected from the snow it only seemed icier.

“Where are we going then?” she asked.

“I’m going to meet with my supervisor and tell him I finally accomplished my mission. And you, my dear, aren’t going anywhere. You’re going to die.”

Bastien’s instincts had always been infallible. He would know when a mission was going to go south, when a mole would turn, when to strike and when to abort. He would know who he could trust, and just how far he could trust them, and he would know who, in the end, would betray him.

He’d lost that skill in the past year. Either lost it, or just didn’t care. His job had been simple—get rid of Hakim, keep track of the new division of territories and make certain Christos wasn’t put in charge of the cartel.

But he’d stopped listening to the voices that warned him of danger. They hadn’t gone away—they were whispering in his ear, insidious voices, warning him. Warning him of what?

He drove through the snow-blanketed streets of Paris
with his usual suicidal speed. There was marginally less traffic than usual, but those who were out had less room to move, and the snow hadn’t improved their attitude. The car Maureen had brought him was a late-model BMW, with too much power for the snowy streets, but he slid and spun his way toward the hotel with dexterity, only clipping a taxi once.

A taxi. They’d found the man he’d trussed and gagged in the basement parking garage. Found him dead, his throat cut open like Chloe’s friend. He should have been prepared for that—even with all his precautions they’d managed to keep track of him. He’d grabbed the paper when he’d gone to find Maureen, and he’d spared a thought for the driver’s wife the water buffalo and their four children. If he made it through the next few days he might even see about getting some money to them. It wouldn’t replace their husband and father, but it would lessen some of the difficulties the work of the Committee had delivered.

It would have been Thomason who’d ordered the hit, Thomason who was having him followed and cleaning up any witnesses, any survivors. He must have seen through Bastien’s usually adept lies. It was standard operating procedure—an organization such as theirs wouldn’t exist for very long if people were left alive to talk and to wonder. Secrecy was the most important tenet, even more important than whatever mission they’d been assigned. They were all the same—to save
the world. And yet no matter how many people he’d killed, the world never seemed to be saved.

He was nearing the hotel. A small suite was reserved for him, and most of the cartel was already assembled, awaiting the arrival of Christos. He was dressed and ready to resume his life, knowing Chloe Underwood was being taken care of by the best agent he knew. Maureen had worked on a number of missions with him, including the latest as his wife. She would get her safely on the plane, and then Chloe would no longer be their problem. His problem. In fact, by putting her in Maureen’s hands, he’d already finished his part of it. He was ready to move on, concentrate on what mattered and not a momentary distraction.

Except that something wasn’t right. It was gnawing at him, tickling his nerve endings, and he couldn’t quite place what it was. He’d trust Maureen with his life. Their affair had matured into a deep friendship that went beyond the boundaries of the all-powerful Committee, and he knew he could count on her.

So why did he keep wanting to turn back, to make sure?

Maybe it was simply that he was having a hard time letting go of Chloe. He hadn’t allowed himself to care about another human being for a long time. He wasn’t sure he actually cared about Chloe, but he’d chosen to protect her, and that had put some sort of connection between them that sex hadn’t.

If it was that simple—that he didn’t want to give her up—then he could easily ignore that nagging little voice. Sentimentality had no place in his life. He’d lost any trace of it long ago, if, in fact, he’d ever had any. When he’d gotten news of his mother and Aunt Cecile’s death in a hotel fire in Athens he’d simply shrugged. That part of his life was long over, and he’d dismissed it.

Just as he needed to dismiss all thoughts of Chloe and concentrate on finishing this last mission. She was no longer his problem, his responsibility. In fact, she never had been. He’d just chosen to make her so. And now he could forget about her.

He took the turn so quickly the car slid halfway across the snow-narrowed street, and he just barely missed hitting another taxi. He was being an idiot, and he accepted that fact, but he was going back to the old house on the outskirts of Paris. Maybe he just had to say goodbye. Maybe he simply had to make sure she was all right. Maybe he wanted to kiss her one more time. Make love to her the way she deserved.

That wasn’t going to happen. If he had any sense at all he’d ignore this sense of foreboding as the extraneous bullshit it was, put it behind him and finish the job. Take out Christos, and see whether Thomason was really going to have him killed as well.

But right now he didn’t seem to have much sense. And he wasn’t going to be able to move on until he made sure his reluctant charge was safe.

Chloe didn’t bother to say anything stupid, like “what do you mean?” She knew exactly what Maureen meant. Had known since the woman walked into their tiny, safe haven and Bastien had abandoned her, despite her talk of new haircuts and fancy underwear. The woman had no intention of letting her get on any plane. That was what the new clothing was for—so they couldn’t trace her by any mark on her own clothes. Couldn’t trace her body.

She was past the point of panic. “Is that why Bastien brought you here? Because he couldn’t do it himself?”

“Ah, Bastien. This particular identity hasn’t been particularly fortunate. If he were his old self you never would have left the château. As it is, I’m here to clean up the mess he made. Attention to detail is the only way to success.”

She was between Chloe and the open door. She was taller than Chloe, and despite the chic clothing she looked as if she were quite a bit stronger. And Chloe was hardly at her best.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her new, perfectly fitting clothes, and looked into the eyes of her killer. She felt numb, and though she despised herself for it, unable to move. She was going to sit there like a lamb waiting for slaughter, putting up no sort of fight….

The hell she was. She sat up straighter, but Maureen was already ahead of her.

“You’re not going gentle into that good night?” she said with a faint smile. “That’s all right. I owe you a fair amount of pain—you screwed me over and I don’t like being made to look a fool in front of my superiors.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jean-Marc. Or Bastien, or whatever you call him. You’re just another example of his ambivalence. You’ve distracted him, when he was a man who could never be distracted. Killing you will be my gift to him.”

“Did he bring you here to kill me?”

“You already asked me that,
chérie.
And you may have noticed, I didn’t answer. You’re just going to have to wonder about that with your dying breath. Now start moving.”

“Where?”

“This room has steel reinforcements, and we’re directly above the bathroom. They’re likely to survive a fire more than the rest of this old bundle of dry wood, and I don’t take chances. One screwup is enough.”

“You’re going to burn the place? Then why did you bother making me change my clothes?”

“God is in the details. Except, of course, I don’t believe in God. But I never count on anything. They may find enough of your body, and I don’t want them ID-ing you. If you were German or English I wouldn’t have to be so careful, but the Americans tend to make a huge fuss when one of their citizens is murdered overseas. Out the door,
chérie.
We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

“And what if I refuse to move? Make you kill me here?”

“You won’t. You’ll put off dying as long as you possibly can. It’s human nature. You’ll do everything I tell you to do, in the hope that you’ll find a weak spot, a chance to escape. You won’t, but you can’t believe that. So you’re going to do exactly as I say, walk out that door and down the stairs to the far corner of the second floor. Where I’ll cut your throat and then torch the place. I’ve already set the accelerants.”